


wake me, wake me up my darling

by norvegiae



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Afterlife, Angst, I've not written in years and it shows, M/M, Mutual Pining, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:53:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22224400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/norvegiae/pseuds/norvegiae
Summary: James Fitzjames feels like a new man.The old James Fitzjames lies on the cot in front of him, cradled by the man he wishes he could have had more time with.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 22
Kudos: 75





	wake me, wake me up my darling

James Fitzjames is on his feet again. 

He is fully dressed: his finest uniform, the one he was sure he left behind on Erebus. His greatcoat, comforting in its weight and in its warmth, buttoned neatly. His white gloves, spotless, shining. His boots are spotless too, looking as they did the day he bought them, the day he had inspected his monogram with a proud smile. His officer’s cap is tucked under his arm, it too looking fresh and new. 

He does not feel the cold. He does not feel the pain. 

His joints no longer humming with an indescribable agony. His feet are steady, his legs are stable. Planted firmly, confidently, on the floor, holding himself up with none of the weakness he had felt before. He feels strong again. 

Resting a hand on his chest, his stomach, he can feel that the weight has come back. He has substance again, and enjoys the feeling of cold, clean air coming smoothly into his lungs as he breathes. 

He feels like a new man.

The old James Fitzjames lies on the low cot before him. His jaw is slackened, his eyes, clouded and bloody, are unfocused. Unblinking.

Captain Francis Crozier is bent over him, one hand on his cheek, the other on his shoulder. Silent tears are streaming down his face. 

( _oh, Francis_ )

James wants to touch him, to stroke his hair and dry his face. He realises, now, that this is no longer possible. There is no time. 

They had never known how little time they had. 

“James.” Francis’ voice is broken. Barely a whisper, barely audible above the rush of wind outside the tent. He lowers his head, to rest his forehead against James’s own. 

He is stooped over, as if kneeling in prayer. 

James had never thought to ask Francis if he prayed. He had always assumed not, but the sight before him, Francis’ eyes screwed shut, his mouth moving silently, murmuring things he never had the courage -

( _there was no time, we never had the time to get there_ )

\- to say before.

Francis sits up again, his rough, frostbitten hands moving to smooth James’ hair back from his face. It had grown long and limp, a far cry from the fine coiffure of days old. Francis smooths it down, tucking it behind James’ ears. With his thumb, Francis rubs away a smear of blood from James’ cheekbone.

How James had longed for these caresses. The desire had sprung up quite suddenly, taking James by surprise. It had begun the first time he had seen Francis, after Francis’ short illness. He had looked at his Captain, into his pale eyes, clear now of any haze, any interference. He had seen the man he had been hoping Francis to be all along. 

Francis’ forthright eagerness, his unrestrained, unequivocal love for the men in his care. His courage, here at the end of the world, after so many had not been able to hold out. Sober, seeing with eyes unclouded, Francis had become stronger, surer in his actions. 

Francis had become James’ friend, James’ brother. 

His gloved hand on James’ shoulder had made his heart soar. 

( _here was a man I would have followed to the very ends of Creation_ )

James had shared with Francis his very darkest secrets. Secrets that had dogged him throughout his life, throughout his career, as he spun lies of omission and performed sleights of hand to keep a step ahead of them, earning promotions and advancement. His career, he decided early on, as a young man eager to conquer the world, would speak for him and do him credit. The circumstances of his birth would remain deep in the darkest corner of his heart, unbidden, ignored, until the end. 

James had not managed that, in the end. He deemed his career to be much less important than his desire to let Francis know him fully, to know what lay at his very core. 

He had told Francis everything, and now they were Francis’ secrets to keep. 

( _what will you do with them, Francis? Carry them gently, for they are as old as I_ )

Francis sniffles, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. 

He picks up James’ hand, cradles it in his own. It is gaunt, now, dull skin stretched over fragile bones, like a baby bird found on the garden path. 

He kisses the knuckles, just once, just gently, and suddenly he is overtaken with sobs, the sound suddenly rushing through him. He places James’ hand on his stomach, and rests his forehead on James’ hand. 

James fancies he can feel the warmth of that kiss on his hand, and the wetness of tears. 

He looks saintly, James thinks, the martyr left behind to suffer a fate far worse than that of his men. 

There is a Bible in the tent, somewhere. Francis would read passages aloud to James, before the end. Neither of them had ever been a great reader of it before, but it seemed right, here. It had brought James a great deal of peace. Francis’ voice, an anchor even as the world was spinning away from James, had brought him a great deal of peace.

Sobs still rack through Francis’ hunched form. His tears are staining the front of James’ coat. 

Oh, how James yearns to reach out and touch him. To lay his hands on Francis’ sainted body, to ease his suffering, if he can. 

James thinks that if Francis speaks his name firmly enough, presses his hand hard enough, the body before them both might wake. As he stands before this tableau, this pietà, it seems so plausible, so easy. 

James imagines the fluttering of his eyes, the deep, sighing breath as the colour returns to the pallid skin. 

He imagines the fingers tightening around Francis’ own hand, tight, tight enough to never have to let go again. 

He imagines the blood drying, the wounds closing up, the infection leaving him. The heart, woken from its slumber, restarting its steady beat.

He imagines the lips moving to speak the name of the man in front of him.

( _oh, Francis_ )

He imagines the lips moving to speak all of the things within his heart. 

He imagines the lips moving, his whole body moving, to close the distance between them, to kiss Francis, as he had thought about so often on long, lonely, nights.

If only he would wake. 

James wishes he had had the strength, the courage to live, as Francis still lives. He wishes he could have helped Francis get home. To be a captain to his men, a rallying point, as Francis is trying to be. James has let his men down, and he has let Francis down. 

He has left Francis alone in a place like this, and he is deeply sorry for it.

If only he would wake, and they could resume their work again. 

( _wake me, Francis, please wake me_ )

James steps forwards, without the ever present crunch of gravel under his feet. He reaches out a hand, reaches for Francis’ shoulder. It feels so achievable, it feels like he can do this. He feels sure that Francis will turn, straighten up, look at him with love shining in those blue eyes.

His hand finds no purchase. Out in the wastes, his hand had fisted tightly in Francis’ coat – probably tighter than necessary, but it felt right to hold on with all his might – and now his hand falls right through him. 

Francis shudders, however. A disjointed breath shakes out of him. He sits up slightly, and James thinks that maybe Francis _will_ turn now, maybe Francis _will_ see him and know that James loves him, and is sorry to leave him. 

James knows Francis will not turn. He hopes that Francis knows these simple truths anyway.

He feels the wind blowing at him now, even within the tent. He feels his feet unable to stay fixed in place, as though he were naught but gossamer. 

He must go, finally. He does not know where he is going. He hopes for somewhere green and pleasant, the shaded lawn of Rose Hill on a still July evening. 

He hopes Francis Crozier will find him there one day.

James Fitzjames runs a hand through his hair, and places his cap on his head. Turning his collar up against the wind, he turns and leaves the tent, moving out into the bright sunlight.

**Author's Note:**

> My first every fic for The Terror, which has claimed all of my heart in a very short period of time. 
> 
> The title and inspiration for this comes from Susanne Sundfør's achingly beautiful "When The Lord", which I encourage you to listen to.


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